Night has firmly fallen over a palatial estate with itstrimmed hedgse and swaying aged trees casting their dusky shadows before themoonlight. Perfectly manicured lawnsstretch out far and around the great home; any imperfections in the cut grassare hidden by night’s lens. Sculpted stone and smooth glass rises above the grounds. Out of the many rooms and halls one is filled with dull lamplight and therein, at the center of house, dwells Vincenzo Savonaorla.
Surrounded by luxuries inspired by old world wealth he walks about. Bare feet waltz along fine woven rugs. Leather-bound tomes and other favorite writings sit upon hand carved bookshelves; poetry, philosophy,theology, medicine, classics and a few noteworthy contemporaries. A better-rounded personal library one will be hard pressed to find. There are assorted bits of art. Small statues, most ofwhich depict saints, watch their owner as he goes about his business. Upon his great and comfortable bed is an open suitcase with various cosmetics and apparel laid about it.
A night robe hangs to his ankles, dangling like cool silk. In one hand a small cigar smolders, drawing wispy lines through the air. From closet to bed he repeatedly travels. While packing the man thinks, preparing for yet another exhibition of his in-ring prowess. For this match to come is just that, a demonstration. The Godfather is an example of a man not to trifle with. Not in the wrestling worldor any other realm.
“Toiletries, suits hung, shoes, undergarments, i.d. …” Vincenzo mutters in a quiet rasp before taking a drag of his cigar. He begins to organize his traveling necessities within the baggage. Everything to its correct and proper place, one last survey before it is closed and sealed with a zip and lock.
Vincenzo lugs the suitcase from his bed and places near hischamber door. With that cigar betwixt his lips he rummages through the closet, straining to reach the top shelf from which he obtains another smaller bag. He casts it upon the four-poster open and ready. In this bag shall be packed the trappings of a professional wrestler.
“So much effort, such a chore to travel, “thinks Vincenzo, “Allfor one match with only one possible outcome. There is no disputing that.”
Black, shining boots are the first to go in. Their purpose is to aid Savonarola’s march into battle, to do his instant bidding, to stamp out any and all opposition. They are the base of this statuesque form of a man. By them he is allowed to stand proud, firmly rooted and strong.
“Alexander Hayes, who is he? A name, nothing of consequence, irrelevant…”
Dark trunks monogramed with the simple letters in blood red,“VS”. With them, black elbow and kneepads. These are the cushions between the Godfather’s foes and the harsh reality of his brutality. In truth there is little to shield Hayes or any other opponent from the punishment to be inflicted. The pads are a formality, a flimsy buffer that only takes the edge off the pain.
“I had hoped from some pride, some passion from this Hayes, unlike the one before.”
A flowing black ring robe, trimmed with flashing silver sequins along the lapels and around the cuffs. A symbol of status, a compliment to the impressive man that is Vincenzo Savonarola. Greasy hands reach forth, straining to touch the hem of his garments as if he were a prophet or a king.
“I did not want a sparring match. I wanted a native’s heart and drive; a challenge to my abilities.”
He zips this piece of luggage closed and locks it. He taps ashes into a crystal tray near his bedside and indulges in another puff of smooth smoke. As he exhales, Vincenzo looks about his room blankly still in thought.
“All I get is a stamp on my passport to round three.”
He picks up his wrestling-gear-laden bag and drops it nextto the other.
“Well, at least it’ll be a nice day trip…”
The lights click out and the scene fades. Vincenzo Savonarola advances to the third round.